


hablar del amor, y defenderlo

by wordstruck



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Hurt/Comfort, JJBek Friendship, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-WttM Skate, mentions of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 08:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11158449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/wordstruck
Summary: Yuri’s hands close into fists, scrunching the front of Otabek’s shirt. He leans forward, pressing his forehead into Otabek’s shoulder. His friend just stands there and lets him, still stroking Yuri’s hair.After a moment, Otabek asks, “still leaving?”Yuri sniffs, shakes his head.“No.”Or, five times someone tries to leave, and the one time they both choose to stay





	hablar del amor, y defenderlo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zvyozdochka (OfCloudlessClimes)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfCloudlessClimes/gifts).



> I’ve never actually written 5+1 fics before, although I do like to read them from time to time. This is a typical fic and trope, but I like exploring the dynamics of their relationship all the same. Title taken from Deja Vu by Shakira + Prince Royce. (We’re going to pretend the series is set in the 2015-16 skate season, two seasons before the Olympics.)
> 
> For Shino.
> 
> Five break ups, one promise.
> 
> Come find me on Twitter for more YOI AUs/HCs at [@okw_tr](https://twitter.com/okw_tr) and on tumblr at [@vktr-nkfrv](https://vktr-nkfrv.tumblr.com/)!! Thank you for reading!!

 

 _¿quién puede hablar del amor y defenderlo?_  
_¡que levante la mano, por favor!_  
_¿quién puede hablar del dolor y pagar la fianz_ a?  
_¡pa' que salga de mi corazón!_  
_si alguien va a hablar del amor, te lo aseguro  
__ese no voy a ser yo_

* * *

 

**1.**

The first time, they’re not even together yet.

Yuri is in Almaty for a visit, a change of pace. After the exhibition skate fiasco and ahead of Worlds, Lilia has become much stricter about his choreography, while Yuri has become more stubborn about he wants to do for himself. Viktor was the one who’d convinced Yakov to let Yuri take a short break, cool his head.

Yuri doesn’t like being indebted to Viktor, but he’s grateful, however reluctantly. Getting to visit Otabek is a very welcome bonus.

Otabek is accommodating, happy to have Yuri in his home city. He’s lightened his training schedule as much as he can (although with both Four Continents and Worlds coming up, it’s not all that much lighter), takes Yuri around the city at night. Otabek’s family takes to Yuri immediately, showering him in extra food and affection. Yuri even gets to skate in Otabek’s rink, working on his quad flip.

It makes Yuri feel worse about the agitation that gnaws at his ribs, his lungs.

He doesn’t even know _why._ He’s here in Almaty, he’s with Otabek; he’s away from Lilia and Yakov and their nagging, away from Viktor’s overbearing _concern_ and Yuuri’s overly sincere consideration. But whenever he and Otabek go out, Yuri is anxious and self-conscious; whenever Otabek smiles at him, asks him how he feels, if he’s okay, Yuri gets flustered. There’s a lump in his throat that refuses to go away. It’s driving him crazy.

It’s when they come across some friends of Otabek that Yuri snaps. It’s Otabek’s day off, they’re meandering through a commercial area near Otabek’s home. An unfamiliar voice rings over the chatter of the city, drawing their attention.

“ _Beshka!”_ Otabek reacts first, turning around with a big smile; Yuri feels a flash of irritation in his chest. There’s a group of boys, four of them, weaving through the crowd towards them. They arrive and start chatting in -- Yuri’s not sure, it sounds like an odd mix of Russian and Kazakh, but he can’t understand a thing and it’s pissing him off.

It’s a while before they notice Yuri standing there, glaring. One of them breaks off with a surprised look and smiles apologetically, says something to Yuri. Otabek puts a hand on Yuri’s shoulder, gives him a quick smile, then turns back to his friend.

“Russian, please, Maxim,” he says with a laugh.

“Oh, sorry, sorry!” The boy - Maxim - beams at Yuri. The others are looking at him curiously, shooting each other unreadable glances that only vex Yuri even more. Maxim throws an arm around Yuri’s shoulder and smirks. “And you are?”

Yuri shrugs the arm off with no gentleness and huffs. “Leaving,” he snaps, storming off the way they came.

“Hey, what--” Yuri doesn’t want to hear. He takes off running, missing the way Otabek calls after him, the way the boys exchange concerned looks.

Otabek still catches up with him a few blocks away.

 _“Yura,”_ he says sharply, grabbing Yuri’s wrist to stop him from heading off again. Yuri twists his arm petulantly and stomps his foot.

“Let me go.”

“No.” Otabek is searching his face, frowning. The way he holds Yuri’s wrist, his expression, it makes Yuri feel like some problem child who’s being patronized and scolded. He hates it. “Yuri, what happened?”

“I’m pissed off, okay!” he yells. Startled, Otabek lets go of his hand; Yuri hugs his arms to his chest and stares at the ground.

“Why?” Otabek asks. “They’re my friends, Yura, of course they want to talk to me.”

The resentment is climbing up Yuri’s throat and he hates it. “I _know,”_ he mutters, hunching up further. This, whatever it is, it frustrates him. He can’t explain why.

They stand there for a moment, in a side alley that smells vaguely of lamb and smoke, Yuri looking at his shoes and Otabek looking at Yuri.

“Yura--”

Yuri cuts him off. “I’m done,” he says quickly, spinning on his heel and walking back in the direction of Otabek’s home. “I’m going back to Russia on the earliest flight, I can’t do this anymore.”

“What--” Otabek catches up with him again and this time actually blocks his way, standing in front of him (and fuck this, Yuri may be getting taller but Otabek is still bigger and _in his way)._ He takes Yuri by the shoulders, trying to get Yuri to look at him, but Yuri won’t meet his eyes.

“Yura,” Otabek says softly, in a voice that makes something twist in Yuri’s chest. “Are you--” He hesitates. Yuri scrunches his face up. Otabek seems to be weighing his words carefully, uncertainly. He purses his lips, then looks at Yuri with an oddly tight expression. “Are you... jealous?”

Yuri’s eyes widen; his next inhale is sharp and painful.  He jerks away from Otabek even as he feels the heat in his cheeks, the chill in his lungs. “No,” he says breathlessly, adamantly, but the lie is obvious. _“No--”_

Otabek takes Yuri’s hands in his, holds tight despite Yuri’s protests and -- Yuri’s breath catches as Otabek presses Yuri’s palms to his chest, over a quick and nervous  heartbeat. One hand moves to card through Yuri’s hair, gentle as every other thing Otabek does with Yuri.

 _“Kotyonok,”_ Otabek says, and there’s a laugh lurking in the word. Yuri is still looking down. “There was never a need for you to be.”

Yuri’s hands close into fists, scrunching the front of Otabek’s shirt. He leans forward, pressing his forehead into Otabek’s shoulder. His friend just stands there and lets him, still stroking Yuri’s hair.

After a moment, Otabek asks, “still leaving?”

Yuri sniffs, shakes his head.

“No.”

 

 

**2.**

It’s not a good season for Yuri.

It was always going to be difficult to follow up his debut performances -- gold in the GPF, with  a world-record short program score; bronze at Euros; silver at both the Russian Championships and Worlds behind Viktor Nikiforov -- but Yuri is still frustrated, still angry, still desperately disappointed. When he finishes fifth in the Grand Prix Finals, a full twelve points behind Otabek in third, the feeling of failure threatens to drown him.

He stands through the awarding ceremony with shoulders back and head high in defiance, eyes firmly forward. He ignores JJ and the stupid silver medal around his neck; Chris and his stupidly teary eyes as he kisses his gold; even Yuuri, who still has consolatory smiles for Yuri even if Yuuri himself had finished sixth although he’d scored well.

(Viktor, despite finishing fourth and not being on the podium for the first time in over a decade, is chattering happily with everyone and laughing. It makes something dark and ugly twist in Yuri’s gut.)

They all head back to the hotel to prepare for tonight’s banquet and tomorrow’s exhibition skate, and nobody notices that Yuri has disappeared.

Otabek gets the text while he’s looking for his suspenders.

> _i can’t do this. i’m done,  you can go, it’s been real, goodbye_

It’s a very Yuri text. Otabek looks at it, feels something cold and hollow in his chest. Reads and re-reads the words and forces himself not to panic.

Yuri is probably angry, resentful. He’d finished fifth, he’s disappointed, he doesn’t want to see people celebrating and congratulating when he feels like he’s failed. Even if he’s just sixteen, he doesn’t want to slip up, no matter how many people tell him he has room to make mistakes and grow.

(He’s still overshadowed by Viktor Nikiforov’s legacy, the way it hounds his performances; he fights and ends up trying too hard to escape it, hammering at the walls of the box that people have put him into against his will, to try and break them.)

Otabek looks for the key to Yuri’s room, and hesitates only a moment before opening his door.

 

Yuri’s not in the bedroom.

His skate costume and team jacket are tossed onto the floor; the costume looks particularly badly crumpled. A lot of Yuri’s things are scattered across the room, though nothing seems broken.

Otabek finds him in the bathroom, sitting in the unfilled tub, hunched up in an oversized grey hoodie and a pair of tights. He has his chin on his arms, staring at the opposite wall with blank eyes. He’s terrifyingly still.

With careful footsteps, Otabek makes his way to the side of the tub and kneels down beside it. “Yura?” he asks softly, and then, “ _zvezdochko,_ are you with me?”

Slowly, Yuri’s eyes focus, flick over to Otabek, who can see the moment they recognize him -- those green eyes tighten, shutter, painfully. Yuri hugs himself tighter, as if trying to make himself small.

(And like this, he looks so unbearably hurt, and so young.)

“Yura,” Otabek says again, but this time not in asking. It’s one word, simple, rolling easy off his tongue; a quiet affirmation that Otabek is here, with him.

Yuri unfolds a little, drops his hands to his lap, hangs his head. Otabek waits.

A tiny, broken voice: “I lost.”

(Otabek wants to do anything to get rid of the way that voice shakes, of the sadness.)

Yuri inhales, exhales, curls further into himself. Says again, “I lost.”

“You did.” Otabek acknowledges the pain. Then he reaches out, cups Yuri’s face from under the fringe of hair that’s fallen over it. Says, “you are still more than enough.”

For a moment, they simply sit there, and then Otabek hears the wetness in Yuri’s breathing, feels something damp on his palm. Yuri tips his head, leaning into Otabek’s touch; hiding his face with his hair. His breaths come in suppressed, hiccuping sobs.

 _“Yura.”_ This time, Otabek climbs into the tub with him, and almost before he’s settled in, Yuri’s thrown himself at Otabek, face pressed into Otabek’s dress shirt. His sobs get louder; his shoulders shake. His hands are clenched around fabric, crumpling it, but Otabek doesn’t care. He just gathers this beautiful, imperfect boy in his arms, and presses his cheek into sunshine hair, and lets Yuri cry.

 

(Otabek skips the banquet, spends the night in Yuri’s room. Yuri sleeps curled against him, one ankle slipped between both of his. Yuri also wakes up first; he’s lying on Otabek’s shoulder when Otabek wakes up, tracing idle circles on his friend’s chest.

Otabek takes his hand, kisses the palm, smiles. Yuri’s eyes are still red, and he looks so tired, but he smiles back.)

 

 

**3.**

It’s finally the off-season. Otabek is in St. Petersburg to attend a two-week training camp held by Yakov in tandem with the newly-retired Viktor, who is surprisingly serious about this whole endeavor. Instead of booking a hotel, he’s taken Yuri up on his offer to stay at his apartment. And for a time, it’s comfortable. Otabek cooks in lieu of payment, and Yuri’s delighted to find that Otabek is _excellent_ in the kitchen. Potya already likes Otabek well enough, but it’s _Otabek,_ so Yuri thinks it’s understandable.

Still, Yuri is careful not to be too close, keeps a wary distance. He’s still not quite sure what they _are,_ this odd limbo of friends and lovers and something in between, and the uncertainty makes him cautious. But he wants to figure it out together, and for now he’s happy enough laughing with Otabek in his living room while they look up videos of the coaches back in their skating days (Celestino Cialdini is a pleasant surprise). If they touch less, if he stays a little apart, well, he doesn’t think it’s that big a deal.

But on a Tuesday, after a particularly difficult session on jumps, Yuri emerges from the shower to see that Otabek hasn’t started on dinner. Instead, he’s sitting in the middle of the bedroom they’re sharing (Yuri on the bed, Otabek on the floor) and staring at his open suitcase.

“Beka?” Yuri calls curiously. He tosses his towel onto his desk chair, frowns.

“I was thinking,” Otabek says, and then he pauses. There’s a shirt in his hands, half-folded. “Maybe I should leave.”

Yuri feels like he’s been slapped. _“What?”_

“It’s.” There’s a sharp edge to Otabek’s shoulders, his arms, his jaw. Yuri doesn’t like it. As if sensing his distress, Potya miaows and curls around his ankles, presses against his shin. Otabek sighs. “It feels like -- you don’t exactly want me here.”

“Why would I not?” Yuri’s confused, and upset, and a little scared.

For a moment, Otabek says nothing, and the tension in the room threatens to suffocate Yuri. Then Otabek turns his head, meets Yuri’s eyes with a sincerity so forceful it knocks the breath from Yuri’s lungs.

“I like you,” Otabek says, straightforward and simple. Yuri’s heart stutters in his chest. “I love you, Yuri, and if you don’t feel the same way then I’ll need to leave because I can’t--”

He doesn’t get to say what he can’t, because Yuri has bolted across the room and thrown his arms around Otabek’s shoulders, buried his face in the crook of Otabek’s neck. His whole body is shaking as he presses against Otabek so hard they’re in danger of toppling over.

“Don’t you _dare,”_ he bites out, and his fingers dig so hard into Otabek’s back that it hurts. “Don’t you dare, you can’t leave, you _can’t,_ I won’t let you.”

“Yuri--”

 _“No.”_ The word is loud, anxious, cracked. “Don’t you dare, Beka, you _can’t,_ I-- I--” Yuri can’t get it out; the words keep getting stuck in his throat. He pulls away, scrabbling for Otabek’s hands. Presses them shakily to his chest, where his heart is thudding fast and frightened.

(He remembers Otabek and these same actions, more than a year ago, in a side street in Almaty. He hopes desperately that Otabek will understand.)

Otabek looks at their hands, at the way Yuri’s tremble even as he holds Otabek’s so tightly.

He could almost laugh with the relief and the happiness that crashes down on him.

Carefully, he leans forward so their foreheads touch. They’re both starting to cry. They’re also so very bad at this -- at this thing between them.

“Okay,” Otabek says, and his voice has a laugh. Yuri hiccups one of his own, and then he’s back in Otabek’s arms and they’re lying on the floor in a tangle of limbs. Otabek looks at Yuri and thinks that he’s never been so beautiful.

“Okay.”

 

**4.**

They’re in the living room of Otabek’s home, on the floor and leaning against the couch. Otabek is trying to read a book. Yuri has his phone out and is scrolling through Instagram, head on Otabek’s shoulder, occasionally holding out his phone to show a funny picture or make a comment on someone’s post. JJ actually has a throwback one of him and Otabek from their Canada days; Otabek’s haircut is awful, and JJ is wearing the ugliest shirt Yuri has ever seen.

“I’m sure _you’ve_ worn something you thought was cool at the time but now consider horrible,” Otabek chides. He’s just about ready to give up on getting any reading done, if Yuri’s going to keep interrupting (not that Otabek truly minds). Yuri glances up, looking absolutely offended.

“Of course not,” he declares. His fashion sense is _amazing._ Especially his shoes.

Otabek just raises his eyebrows and looks at him.

“Shut _up,”_ Yuri says, aghast, even if Otabek hasn’t said anything. He elbows Otabek in the side, and Otabek just grins. He takes the phone from Yuri, looks closely at the post. JJ’s captioned it _kings of style!!!_ and hashtagged it into oblivion, including _#partnersinfashioncrime_. It makes him laugh.

“Ugh.” Yuri wrinkles his nose, swiping his phone back and scrolling past (but not before hitting the double tap). Otabek pokes him in the ribs; Yuri squirms.

“We looked good,” Otabek retorts, smirking. Yuri rolls his eyes.

“Why don’t I just break up with you so you can get with JJ and look good together then,” he snipes, although there’s no real heat.

“Hmmm.” Otabek presses a finger to his lips in mock-consideration, and Yuri smacks him with a pillow from the couch. Otabek laughs again, pulls Yuri closer, kisses him.

“I like looking good with _you,”_ he says between kisses. Yuri huffs, blushes, calls him an idiot, but kisses him back anyway.

 

 

**5.**

Otabek purses his lips and thinks, it is not going to be a good season.

It’s September. He’s just come back from training and a particularly painful session, and he’s thinking. He’s in Russia for a few weeks, cross-training at Yakov’s rink among other things. He’s back in Yuri’s apartment, although this time there’s no mattress on the floor. His black zip-up hoodie is missing, presumably stolen by a little stray cat with golden hair.

(It’s his favorite pet name for Yuri, even if Yuri turns red and indignant whenever he uses it. But it suits him, with his brash affection and the way he refuses to answer to anyone, the way he’s weak to genuine care, the way he warms up to people.)

His phone is on the bed, open to a message thread with his coach. There’s a drawer in one of Yuri’s closets that holds his things, so his own suitcase doesn’t hold much. He needs to get started on dinner. Yuri’s extra training with Viktor should have ended a short while ago.

The door to the apartment opens with a bang, and slams shut just as loudly.

It startles Otabek, just like the angry footsteps like thunderclaps through the living room -- Yuri hasn’t even taken off his shoes. The door to the bedroom bursts open and Yuri is striding up to him with fury written all over his face.

“When the _fuck_ were you going to tell me?” he yells, right up in Otabek’s face.

Otabek answers, eloquently, “what?”

Yuri stares at him in disbelief, then shoves him back, hard. “What the fuck, Beka?” He’s so angry he’s shaking. Otabek thinks he knows what this is about, he’s been dreading it, but that’s impossible, Yuri shouldn’t know, not yet, Yuri -- “You _withdrew from the Olympics_ and you didn’t fucking _tell me?”_

Otabek closes his eyes, takes an unsteady breath to brace himself. It only pisses Yuri off even more.

“I had to find out from _Viktor,_ of all people, he asked how I felt and if I’d be okay to compete. Do you know how _humiliating_ it was to stand there and hear from someone else that you weren’t going? When the fuck did you even decide that?”

“Yuri--”

“All your big fucking speeches about relying on each other and asking me to trust you with the hard stuff -- what, were you all talk? Or did you just not trust me with -- fuck, Beka, you didn’t tell me _anything.”_

It hurts. It hurts that Yuri is angry, is hurt, is looking at him with an expression that’s equal parts betrayed and begging Otabek to say it isn’t true. It hurts that Yuri is obviously trying not to cry and Otabek wants to take that away, make it better, but this is… his fault.

“Was your knee that bad?” There’s a crack in Yuri’s voice that makes Otabek step forward, but Yuri backs off and it makes things feel worse. “You said the physical therapy was going fine, you… you came here to train and everything, Beka, you -- why didn’t you _say?”_

“I was going to.” It’s a weak excuse, but Otabek -- was scared, is still scared, didn’t want Yuri to have to shoulder that burden and strain in an Olympic season. In a season meant to be a redemption from the disappointments of the one before. But he should have said, he knows, he couldn’t have put it off forever -- “there just never seemed to be a… good time.”

(Pathetic, that’s what it is, that’s what he is.)

“Well when was it going to be a good time?” Yuri throws his arms up, gesturing wildly. “A month from now? Right before the Grand Prix series? Right before the Olympics? _Never?”_

“No, Yura--”

“Why did I have to find out from someone else?”

“Please, Yura, just listen--”

“To _what?_ I’ve been here this whole time, I -- I’ve been asking if you’re all right, but you just -- kept _lying_ to me and keeping me out, what, did you not trust me enough? Was I not good enough to be included in this?”

He wants to stop the words coming out of Yuri’s mouth, the pain bleeding through every one of them. He wants to say none of this is happening. He wants this discussion to not be taking place, to not ever have to take place. But Otabek can’t get that, can only stand there helplessly without reasons as Yuri looks at him so brokenly.

“That’s not true, Yura.” Otabek’s own voice is shaking. He doesn’t know what to say, except, “I’m sorry, I just--”

“Oh you’re _sorry.”_ Yuri’s tone goes from upset to scathing in seconds. He’s standing in the middle of his room, _their_ room, they’d kissed here just this morning, woken up tangled together. Yuri’s openly crying now, tear tracks down his cheeks, breathing coming heavy and short. Otabek knows the fury and disbelief in those eyes, has seen that directed at other people. He’s never been on the receiving end; he hates it. “That’s great of you, Beka, that really is.”

Then he turns and leaves, the door slamming in Otabek’s face.

 

Otabek doesn’t leave the apartment. Going out to look for Yuri is useless; Yuri knows this city far better than he ever will, can hide better. He’s tried calling, but each time it rings out to voicemail, and Yuri obviously isn’t going to answer any texts. He thinks about the lamb kofta still in the freezer that he was going to cook for dinner, and sits in the living room.

When the door opens, he springs to his feet, ready to beg if needed. But it’s Mila standing there, expression tight and eyes cold.

“Yura?” Otabek asks anyway.

Mila takes a quick glance around the apartment, then looks back at Otabek. There is none of the warmth in her expression that Otabek usually associates with her, no playfulness. “You should leave,” she says in clipped tones. Before he can reply, she’s striding towards the bedroom. Otabek’s suitcase is still in one corner, and Mila drags it over to the closet where his drawer is. It makes something twist in his chest.

“Mila--”

“Viktor is furious.” She cuts him off, goes to stand by the door and looks at him pointedly. “And I am too, so I’m telling you to leave. _Now._ I’ll wait in the living room.”

Otabek watches her head out, then looks at the suitcase on the floor, the closet he and Yuri share. At the things that had slowly migrated into the drawer, things Yuri had borrowed and never returned, things Otabek had left and never asked for. He’s sure that if he doesn’t move, Mila is going to take care of this herself and with no gentleness.

The suitcase is full in ten minutes. Otabek feels very emptied out.

 

Almaty is getting colder. Otabek goes home, announces that he’s taking a break for the season, that he’s withdrawing his participation in both the Grand Prix and the Winter Olympics. The local media and skate fans are disappointed, but send him well-wishes and get-well-soons. They’d been worried this might happen, when Otabek had taken that fall during the last Worlds.

JJ calls him up just a few minutes after the news drops, even if it’s almost midnight in Canada.

“Are you okay?” his friend asks without preamble, and Otabek has never been so glad to hear JJ’s warm voice.

“I’ve had a while to accept things,” he answers honestly. It’s been a point of contention between him and his coach since Worlds; Otabek had just been too stubborn about it.

“Do you want to come out here?” There’s a rustle over the phone; JJ’s probably in bed. “The hospital affiliated with my rink is good, you could do your rehab here -- wait, no, I thought you were in St. Petersburg? What happened?”

Otabek opens his mouth, closes it. Tries to swallow around the lump in his throat.

“Beka?” JJ’s voice has softened; the nickname comes out tentative and nervous. “What happened?”

He can’t answer. There’s a photo on his desk, a small one, taken by Mila during that training camp of Yakov’s and Viktor’s. He remembers that moment, lunch at Viktor’s shared apartment with Katsuki, everyone playing games in the living room while Katsuki and Chris cooked. Yuri’s practically in Otabek’s lap while he laughs, controller held up triumphantly. Otabek knows that out of frame, Viktor would be reaching for Yuri, accusing him of cheating. Otabek himself is half-laughing, half-telling Yuri to be careful or he’ll hit someone.

He takes a shaky inhale. “I think,” and his voice cracks. “I’ll consider it.”

“Okay.” Otabek presses the phone to his ear even harder and wishes his friend were here because he could really use a hug.

 

Canada is even colder than Almaty, though not as much as Russia. JJ and Isabella welcome him with warm smiles and a home-cooked meal; JJ gives him the spare room, saying Isabella will be staying with her family.

Otabek stands, weight shifted to his left leg, and smiles as best as he can.

 

He travels with JJ to all the Grand Prix events, much to his doctor’s and coach’s disapproval. He goes even if he knows JJ isn’t assigned to the same events; it’s a nice distraction. The rest of the series he watches on shitty online streams or hotel televisions. He tells himself he’s not keeping track.

(He’s lying.)

JJ makes the Final with ease. Isabella is so proud, and so is Otabek, although much less loudly. He squashes down the tiny bubbles of resentment in his lungs and congratulates JJ with a smile.

“It’s not as good without you, though,” JJ tells him in the living room of his apartment, where they’ve returned for a few days before flying to Vancouver. Otabek smiles tightly from where he’s sprawled out on the couch. The brace on his right knee feels so very heavy.

“I’ll be back next season. Maybe even for Worlds, if they let me.”

They lapse into silence. JJ fiddles with his phone. Otabek looks at the ceiling. There is a very obvious elephant in the room.

“He’s going to be there,” JJ finally says, setting his phone on the coffee table. Otabek closes his eyes.

“I know.”

 

(They haven’t spoken since September. Each time Yuri had won gold -- Trophée de France, Rostelecom Cup -- Otabek had considered sending him a short message, just a congratulations. He’d stopped himself every time.

Yuri’s skating is still a study of technique and control, of flawless execution. His program scores rival those of his Grand Prix debut. He’s a favorite to win the competition.

There is no smile on his face, just steel and determination. It hurts to see. It’s as if Yuri has simply shut himself off, left only his skating.)

 

Vancouver has changed in the short time since Otabek was last here, but in many ways it’s still the same. He checks in along with JJ and his parents (Isabella will fly in for the actual competition in two days). He tries not to look around, to listen.

JJ goes to do a short press run. Otabek goes out for a walk.

When he returns, there are other skaters and coaches in the lobby, milling around and chatting. It’s hard not to be drawn to the sunshine hair, the blue Russian team jacket, the yelling. Yuri’s already in an argument with Viktor, sniping something while Viktor looks offended. He’s grown taller in the last few months; his hair is even longer now.

It hurts to see.

“Yura! Check in already!” Otabek recognizes Yakov’s voice from behind him. He also recognizes the fury that flashes across Viktor’s face when he turns and sees Otabek standing there, watching them. His lips curl up in a sneer that mars his usually cheerful, good-looking face. But it stings far less than the way Yuri’s eyes slide right past Otabek like he isn’t even there, the way Yuri just walks past him with no acknowledgment. The way his expression doesn’t change, not even a little.

(For the five years Otabek told himself it was fine; that he would wait until they were on equal ground, when he could face Yuri both on and off the ice and hold his own. For five years Yuri had walked past Otabek and it was fine, because he hadn’t known who Otabek was, had been focused on himself. Otabek had simply fought tooth and nail for every scrap of talent he could get, until he could stand on the biggest of stages and feel like there was enough of himself to offer.

Five years, Otabek had waited, and it was fine. But now Yuri walks past him again like he doesn’t know him. It’s different, and it hurts.)

He goes back to his room and sits there and thinks, even more than not being able to skate this season, even more than watching everyone move around him, it’s the loss of Yuri’s bright, answering smile that hurts the most.

 

He declines JJ’s offer to have dinner with his family, stays at the hotel. But being in the room has him on edge, anxious; eventually, he leaves for another walk. When he comes back, cheeks red from the cold and even worse off than when he’d left, there’s someone in front of his hotel room door.

For a moment, his heart skips in hope, but the person has short black hair, not blonde. It takes him a moment to recognize Katsuki, but when he does, surprised is an understatement.

“Did you need something?” he asks, trying not to sound too nonplussed.

“I think I should talk to you,” Katsuki answers. Otabek searches his expression, looking for signs of the same fury and vindictiveness in Viktor, in Mila, but he finds none. Katsuki regards him coldly but civilly, so Otabek figures Katsuki’s not here to kill him.

Probably.

They end up on the balcony of Otabek’s room, overlooking the city. Katsuki is fiddling his fingers, hemming and hawing and clearly trying to figure out what to say.

“I’m still disappointed with the way you handled this,” Katsuki eventually says; it’s not a very promising opener. Otabek blanches, but he knows he’d made a mistake. Hearing it from Katsuki of all people just weirdly makes it feel even worse. He braces himself for more reproach, but Katsuki just sighs and leans his cheek on his hand. “Viktor and Mila are furious, of course; I thought Mila was going to beat you up.”

Otabek grimaces. “I thought she would, too.”

It makes Katuski chuckle under his breath. “We talked her out of it.” He hums a little, looks out over the view. Says, quietly, “Yurio isn’t mad anymore.”

Otabek tries very hard not to hold his breath, not to hope for too much.

“Well, he still is, kind of.” There’s a tiny, fond smile tugging at Katsuki’s lips. “You’re supposed to be honest with each other about things like this, and you left him out. It hurt him a lot.” (Otabek knows this; it’s been haunting his thoughts since September.) “But I…”

Katsuki shakes his head, props his chin on one palm as he leans on the balcony ledge. “Two seasons ago, when I lost to Yurio in his senior debut, I’d actually decided to retire. But I didn’t tell Viktor about it until the night before the free skate.” Katsuki actually _laughs,_ if a little sadly. “I’d thought that if I told him earlier, he’d talk me out of it, and, well… it was my decision. He was my coach, but I’d thought it would only be until the Grand Prix Final, and then he’d return to skating and I’d stop.”

Otabek doesn’t know what to say; he hadn’t even known this, not entirely. He also understands now, somewhat, why Katsuki had come to talk to him. He lets himself ask, “how did he take it?”

Katsuki shakes his head. “Badly. Or, well, he cried and he got angry, though not as much as Yurio did, from what I heard. And things were… difficult between us the next day. But when I just put everything I wanted to say into my skating as my apology and, well, confession. And he understood.” The Japanese skater glances at Otabek, then down to his knee, still in the brace under his pants. “Of course, you can’t exactly do the same… but Yurio will understand.”

Otabek looks at Katuski, who’s smiling softly, then turns his gaze out to the view. He inhales, exhales in a sigh. “Okay.”

“I’ll handle Viktor,” Katuski says, patting him on the shoulder. As he turns to leave, he adds, “be honest this time.”

Otabek swallows dryly, nods. “Okay.”

 

Finding Yuri the next day is simple. Otabek shows up at his hotel room door with nothing but himself and a jumble of words in his mouth. True to his word, Katsuki has spirited Viktor off somewhere, so it’s just Yuri in the doorway glaring at Otabek (and if looks could kill).

“Please, Yuri,” Otabek says, simply and sincerely. There’s a flash of uncertainty in Yuri’s eyes, and it hurts, but at this point the worst Yuri can do is close the door.

Thankfully, he doesn’t.

Leaving the door open, Yuri stomps back into the room and throws himself onto the couch, saying nothing and fiddling with his phone. Otabek takes the unspoken invitation and comes inside. He stands there awkwardly, trying to remember everything he’d rehearsed last night, then decides to follow Katsuki’s advice.

“I’m sorry,” he says, without preamble. He sees the way Yuri’s jaw tightens, his fingers still, but Otabek just presses on. “For whatever it’s still worth, Yura, I really am. I didn’t leave you out on purpose, and I didn’t mean to end up lying. I swear.”

Yuri doesn’t look up. Otabek steadies himself with a breath. “I was scared. It was a major decision, and I didn’t want it to affect you, too. I know it’s stupid, and it’s no excuse. I made a mistake. I won’t leave you out again.”

He can’t meet Yuri’s eyes like this, so Otabek simply lets every emotion bleed into his words and hopes it’s enough to get his message across. “I swear, Yura -- _zvezdochko,_ I won’t shut you out again.”

The room is quiet. Yuri is still looking at his phone, cradled in his lap, and Otabek looks at Yuri and tries to swallow down the hope threatening to bloom in his chest. There is a moment, then two, then slowly, Yuri holds out one hand.

Otabek is across the room in a heartbeat, kneeling in front of Yuri, hands hovering. When he sees the tears pricking at the corner of Yuri’s eyes, he stops holding his breath.

“Kitten,” and the familiar nickname almost cracks as he says it, “I never wanted to hurt you, I swear. I know I messed up, but I am here, I -- I love you, Yura, I love you.”

He repeats the words, over and over, reaching up and cupping Yuri’s cheeks, threading fingers through sunshine hair. And Yuri crumples forward, into Otabek’s arms; pushes his face into Otabek’s shoulder, slender hands clutching at his shirt.

“Beka,” he says, wetly, hoarsely, and Otabek holds him tighter.

 

(Yuri doesn’t take gold; he finishes a point and a half shy of JJ’s total to come in second. But the steel in his skating has softened; his extensions and lines are less harsh. And when the initial congratulations have passed and Viktor has let go of Yuri, the young skater’s eyes search the crowd. When he finds Otabek, he smiles, a soft upturn of lips, and cheekily gives him a thumbs up.

Otabek shakes his head, but gives a thumbs up in return.)

 

 

**+1**

It’s morning in St. Petersburg, a rare day off for both Otabek and Yuri. They’re in the living room. Yuri’s with Potya, sunshine on his hair in its messy bun and on the old sweater he’s wearing, ratty at the cuffs. Otabek’s just come back from the kitchen, standing by the counter and watching them. It’s a soft and quiet morning, the cold seeping in just a little.

The early sunlight streams through the windows of their apartment, painting everything rose and gold. Potya miaows indignantly, having had enough of Yuri’s teasing, and stalks off to the sound of Yuri’s laughter. Otabek wants to kiss the crinkles at the corners of those bright green eyes, kiss him and kiss him.

A faint smell of bread and smoke wafts in from outside. There’s a blanket thrown over the back of the couch, which they cuddle under when they watch movies, or just sit and talk. There are photos, mementos littering various surfaces. There’s a cactus on the window sill.

Otabek looks at Yuri: high cheekbones and sharp shoulders, a slenderness that belies his strength; the line of his back that Otabek had kissed down last night. The warmth in his expression when he meets Otabek’s gaze and smiles, for no reason other than that Otabek makes him happy.

Otabek looks at Yuri, and the words simply come out.

“Marry me.”

Yuri’s hands still where they’re reaching for Potya; his eyes widen as he looks back at Otabek, stunned. Otabek just walks over to where he sits, kneels beside him, takes Yuri’s hands in his. Lifts them to his own lips for a kiss.

“Marry me.”

Yuri inhales shakily, eyes searching Otabek’s face. He finds nothing but certainty, a steadiness so characteristic of Otabek, that he relies on.

“Okay.”

The answer is quiet, gentle, sure. There’s the softest of smiles on Yuri’s lips, an immeasurable fondness in his gaze as he looks up at Otabek. The floor is cold under Otabek’s knees, Yuri’s legs. It’s eight in the morning on a Wednesday.

“Okay.”

Otabek kisses him.


End file.
